


Simmer

by Feeeshy



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aftercare, F/M, Heat Fic, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, One Shot, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feeeshy/pseuds/Feeeshy
Summary: Emet-Selch didn’t understand what could have triggered it. Sundered souls were not enough, in his experience. But even after thousands of years of dormancy, the symptoms were unmistakable—the heat simmering in his low belly, pumping through his veins, the growing need. It had not reached unbearable levels yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 8
Kudos: 143
Collections: Heat Wave





	Simmer

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small dip into heatfic writing, inspired by the Bookclub.

Emet-Selch dabbed a handkerchief along the sweat beading at his brow. Even the chill of the Ocular offered him no relief from the warmth spreading under his skin. Now, of all times, for _this_ to happen was very nearly maddening.

“You look unwell, Ascian.”

The Exarch’s cold voice cut at him from across the room, but Emet-Selch ignored him. 

He did not understand what could have triggered it. Sundered souls were not enough, in his experience. But even after thousands of years of dormancy, the symptoms were unmistakable—the heat simmering in his low belly, pumping through his veins, the growing _need._ It had not reached unbearable levels yet, but it was only a matter of time. He prayed this audience that the Exarch called with the others ended quickly.

The doors swung open, and the Scions strode into the chamber, minus their beloved hero.

“Will the Warrior of Light not be joining us today?” The Exarch cocked his head in question.

“She isn’t feeling well, and is spending the day in her room,” Y’shtola answered easily. “She bid us go on with the meeting without her.”

“Oh,” the Exarch perked up with concern, “then I will be sure to have the chirurgeons—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Y’shtola interrupted, raising a hand. “It is nothing to be overly concerned with. A day or two of rest is all she needs.”

Something in the Miqo’te woman’s tone caught the Ascian’s ear. It was not the entire truth she told. 

Hope suddenly burned bright in his chest. _It couldn’t be_ —was seven times rejoined enough? Was only half of an Amaurotine soul enough to bring about his current ailment? And, interestingly, was _she_ reacting to _him?_

After mumbling some excuse about boredom and needing sleep, Emet-Selch retreated to the shadows. More than likely, it was just a normal cold that had stricken the hero, but he needed to find out for himself. Forgoing decorum, he opened a portal directly to her quarters at the inn.

In the darkened room, the intoxicating scent of arousal surged over him, clogging his senses and weakening his knees. The hero sat up on her bed at his sudden appearance, a blanket held tight to her chest. Hair damp with sweat, skin glistening, face _deliciously_ flushed, there was no mistaking what currently befell her. 

“What are you—” she stopped, eyes visibly dilating even in the low light. His own scent must have seized her.

Emet-Selch stood rooted to the floor, not trusting himself to move lest he rushed to his mate, now eons returned to him. 

“It seems we both have come down with a peculiar problem,” he said, trying to ease the situation. Her eyes narrowed.

“You did this to me?” 

He winced at the accusation in her breathless question.

“It was not my intent. I am just as surprised as you are.” 

“But why _you?”_

He held his breath. The answer to that laid in memories she had long forgotten and a bonding he had feared forever lost to the tides of time.

“Will you allow me to take care of you?” he offered instead. His voice dipped low, steeped in desire as his clothes grew suffocatingly tight, but he kept himself steady. Full well he knew how this looked, an Ascian in rut barging into her room while she lay in the throes of a heat. If she denied him, he would leave without another word and find some other way to deal with his needs.

She studied him for a long moment, her breathing labored. 

“You cannot tell a soul of this.” She tossed the blankets to the side, revealing her bare form to him. Turning, getting on her knees and presenting herself to him, he almost tripped in his haste to cross the room. Vaguely he was aware of himself dissipating his own clothes into aether. 

Grabbing her around the hips and mounting her on the bed, his throbbing tip pushed past her puffy folds, sliding into her wet warmth. She easily took him to his base.

Emet-Selch groaned with his forehead pressed to the hero’s back.

“You are positively _dripping_ , my dear.”

 _“Shut up,”_ she growled, fingers digging into the blankets underneath, bracing for him, “and _fuck me.”_

His burning instincts snapped his hips forward, and the sounds of their quick, slicked coupling filled the room. Each slide of his member inside of her sent waves of ecstasy crashing over him, each twitch and flutter of her walls flooded his mind with nothing but the need to mate. Desperate to taste her, he licked a line between her dampened shoulder blades, sending the hero crying out his title into the darkness.

With a sudden gasp, he released into her. His seed spilled out around their joining, dripping down her leg and staining the blankets underneath. His hips slowly rolled through his brief pangs of overstimulation before the fog of rut consumed his senses once again, urging him to take and take and _take_ , take back what should have never been stolen from him.

At her constant, demanding cries for more, he filled her with his essence, again and again and _again._

⸻

Emet-Selch awoke first the next morning. The hero laid curled to his side, the ghost of a flush still on her cheeks. It was the last remnant of the ravenous woman from the previous night, now all but replaced by the peaceful visage of sleep.

Carefully, so as to not awake her, he moved off the long table they had slept on and stood in the small kitchenette, taking stock of the room before him. After one round where he got overzealous and allowed more of his Amaurotine strength to come through, the bed now laid in pieces against the far wall. Undeterred, they then made their way coupling around her room, until the table had proved itself the most suitable replacement.

Summoning his clothes back on, he set about tidying up the mess they had caused. The hero would be sore when she awoke, and he intended to care for her for as long as she would allow his company.


End file.
